Maybe he hadn’t planned to kill Joseph just then, but there was the chance, and he took it.”
I think that was on Wednesday, and Joseph had been shot on Sunday night.
It is hardly surprising that I could not sleep that night, although everything was safe enough now that crime had at last entered my very house.
From the night of the shooting an officer had patrolled the grounds in the daytime, keeping out the curious crowds which would otherwise have overrun us, and another one had stayed downstairs in the house at night.
The maids left him a night supper in the pantry, and a coffee pot on the range.
About two in the morning there would steal through the house the aroma of boiling coffee, and although I had begun to suffer from a chronic insomnia, that homely and domestic odor acted on me like a narcotic.
Downstairs was the law, armed and substantial, and awake.
I would go to sleep then.
But that night I did not.
I lay in my hot bed and listened to the far-off movements below, and that theory of Judy’s grew until it became a nightmare.
At last I got up, put on a dressing gown and slippers, and went down the stairs.
The pantry looked very comfortable, bright with lights and with that solid square blue figure drawn up to the table before the cold roast beef, the salad, the bread and cheese and coffee which were to stay it until morning.
But the officer was taking no chances in that pantry.
The shades were closely drawn, and a chair was placed against the swinging door into the kitchen.
I must have moved very silently, for when I spoke he leaped to his feet and whirled on me; none the less impressive because the only weapon in his hand was a silver fork.
“I’ve come for some coffee,” I said.
“Come in, ma’am. Come in,” he said heartily.
And I gathered from the zeal with which he served me that he too had found the night long and not a little dreary.
So we sat there, the two of us, companionably supping.
He recommended mustard for the cold beef and so I took mustard, which I happen to despise.
All the time he carried on a running fire of conversation, like a man who is relieved to hear the sound of any voice, even his own.
And when my complaisance regarding the mustard brought tears to my eyes, he even leaned over and patted my arm.
“You get that coffee down, ma’am,” he said, “and you’ll feel better.
I guess you’ve been through plenty.”
Here, however, he delicately decided to change the subject.
“What’s happened to the red-haired girl who was here the night of the—the night you sent for us?
I haven’t seen her since.”
“That was my niece, Judy Somers.
She does not live here.
But she is not red-haired.”
“I don’t mean Miss Somers.
This girl was red-headed all right.
She was running up the drive just ahead of me.
When she heard me, she stopped.”
I sat perfectly still.
Fortunately he was busy with his coffee, into which he was putting lump after lump of sugar.
I managed to steady my voice.
“A red-haired girl?” I said slowly.
“Did she speak to you?”
“I’ll say she did.
Caught me by the arm and wanted to know what was wrong in the house.
I said:
‘What business is that of yours?’ and she said she worked here.
She had a right to know.
The rest had gone on, and I was in a hurry myself, but she hung onto me, and I saw that she looked sort of sick.
‘Somebody been hurt,’ I said, and with that she let me go.”
“You didn’t see her again?”
He looked at me and smiled.
“I’ve been watching for her here.
She was a right good looking girl.